Against All Enemies (36 page)

“Who are they?” Holloway asked.

Kamigami answered in a low voice. “Imams.” He motioned them to silence as the imam sitting in the middle started to speak in Arabic. His words were harsh and guttural, filled with hate.

It was Osmana Khalid.

8:08
A.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia

Durant turned away from the monitor. “At least we know what happened to Khalid.” He thought for a few moments. “Agnes, how long do you anticipate the trial to last?”

The computer answered without hesitation. “Since the execution is scheduled for this coming Friday, I expect it will end Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”

“An interesting concept of justice,” Durant muttered, “where the date and manner of execution is determined before the trial.”

“The trial is for symbolic purposes only,” Agnes explained. “Under Islamic law, there is no question as to their guilt.”

“Have we reestablished contact with Kamigami yet?”

“My information indicates no. Mr. Durant, what exactly is Mr. Kamigami’s role in all this?”

“It’s very simple,” Durant answered. “We need someone on the inside to tell us exactly where the prisoners are when we go in. We don’t want to find the well dry when we get there.” He didn’t tell her the second reason.

Agnes paused, running this information against her data base on rescue missions. “Given your force size, diversionary tactics are critical. May I make a suggestion?”

“Please do.”

“You need to gain their attention and get them looking away from the prisoners. I suggest you target Assam’s laboratories, the original objective. But there are problems. The Sudanese, with the help of the Chinese, have positioned considerable air defenses in the area. However, what they see as a formidable deterrence is also a target.” A series of maps and an order of battle surrounding Jamil bin Assam’s laboratories scrolled on the second TV monitor.

“I see what you mean,” Durant said. “It’s a good target for cruise missiles.”

“If you’re willing to settle for reduced damage,” Agnes replied. “If you want to destroy the laboratories, use B-Twos. Not only is the symbolism obvious, but according to my analysis, by ingressing at high altitude, the probability of success is very high.” The second monitor blinked and the statistics that predicted mission success appeared on the screen. Durant scanned the numbers with some care. Statistics he understood.

“I think you’re being overly optimistic,” he said.

“Actually, these numbers are quite conservative. May I suggest you bypass Mr. Serick and approach the President directly?”

Durant ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve lost credibility with Jim, probably because of my heart attack, and Serick and Broderick have teamed up to block access. Let’s find out if I’ve still got the juice to kick in the front door.”

“Please don’t,” Agnes said. “I’m afraid that level of physical exertion might trigger another heart attack.” Agnes was still having trouble with idioms.

“Agnes, last Tuesday when we talked, you found something ‘interesting’ but wouldn’t tell me what it was.” The image changed and gave him a thoughtful, mature look. Durant smiled. “Have you been watching reruns of
Murder She Wrote?
”

The image actually blushed. “I like Jessica. She’s so elegant. To answer your question, I monitored a phone call from Meredith that made reference to Delta Force. I think he knows about the rescue mission.”

“Do you know who leaked it to him?”

Agnes shook her head. “I strongly suspect Serick, but I have no proof.”

“Serick,” Durant explained, “is playing both sides and wants to ingratiate himself with Meredith in the event he comes to power.”

Agnes sighed. “There’s so much I don’t understand.”

Durant decided it was time to proceed with the next step in the plan to make Agnes more reliable and predictable. “Agnes, there are some books I want you to read and make an ‘Integral dash X’ to your decision making process.” The term ‘Integral dash X’ was a command function that modified Agnes’s programming logic.

Agnes’s voice went flat. “I will have to confirm any changes with my programmers before integration.”

“I understand.” He read the names of the books to her. It was not a long list.

5:00
P.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Khartoum

People still milled around the gate of the Islamic seminary where the two American pilots were being tried. The court had recessed before evening prayers and the morning’s huge crowd had mostly dispersed. But a few rabble-rousers and a large group of beggars still hung on, the first hoping for some excitement of any kind, the second for a generous sucker. The last of the rabble-rousers finally wandered away, but the beggars stayed and refused to move. The common wisdom they shared as an article of their trade held that the faithful would be most generous on the day the American pilots were sentenced to death. Until then, they were immovable.

Kamigami walked out of the gate and headed for the hotel beside the Nile River where he was staying. Even in the half light of late evening, he had no trouble picking out the familiar figure of the beggar sitting against the wall. He gave the mental equivalent of a sigh of relief. He walked slowly and pressed coins into dirty palms as he moved along the wall, finally reaching the last beggar. “I am not one of you but alms are for the faithful,” he murmured.

The beggar muttered the countersign. “Allah rewards all who honor him in this way.” Then he added, “Asshole.” Kamigami pressed a few coins into his hand. “Move the execution to an isolated location in the desert,” the beggar murmured. “The farther away from here, the better.”

Nothing on Kamigami’s face betrayed what he was thinking as he made his way to his hotel.
Easier said than done
, he thought.

9:30
A.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

The lieutenant colonel cleared himself into the mission planning cell of the 509th Bomb Wing and stood by the door. He was tall, almost six-two, and, although he had never flown fighters, wore his flight suit like a fighter pilot. His hair was salt and pepper, more gray than black. In the wing’s pecking order of things, Lt. Col. Jim West was the commander of the Combat Training Squadron. Among the knowledgeable, he was the 509th’s Top Gun. On a calm day, West was caged energy and highly focused action. On a bad day, no one got in his way. West waited until the wing commander saw him before announcing his presence. “Hell of a way to spend Saturday morning General.”

“Jim,” the general said, pleased that West had responded so quickly, “an air task order came down about thirty minutes ago. It’s a biggie.”

West looked around the room. It was packed with every high-roller in the wing and he was the lowest-ranking officer present. “Judging by this crowd, it must be. What’-cha got?”

The chief of Intel took over and briefed the latest tasking the wing had received from the NMCC, the national military command center. The wing was to prepare another strike against Jamil bin Assam’s laboratory complex. “This is the same target where Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway—”

West interrupted. “I know what the target is.”

The wing commander allowed a tight smile. He knew the symptoms. West had been on leave when Terrant and Holloway had been shot down, and he wanted a chance to even the score.

“I’m sure you do,” the intelligence officer said, trying to make peace with West. Unfortunately, he came across as patronizing. “We are now seeing multiple defenses arrayed in the area, including an S-Twelve radar system. As you know the S-Twelve was specifically designed by the Russians to counter Stealth technology.” West fought the urge to strangle the man. “This,” the Intel officer continued, “in my opinion, is not a suitable target for B-Two operations.” West arched an eyebrow but said nothing. “The NMCC,” the Intel officer concluded, “wants to know how many aircraft it will take for eighty percent probability of destruction.”

“Wrong question,” West replied. “How many targets do they want us to kill?”

“Four,” the Intel officer replied, “including the laboratory.” He handed West a target folder.

The lieutenant colonel glanced through it. “How ’bout that? Someone has finally got a clue. Tell them we got one aircraft and ask if they got four more targets.”

A broad grin spread across the wing commander’s face. West was about to prove what he had known for years: the B-2 had changed the bombing paradigm. In the past, it had been “How many aircraft does it take to destroy a target?” The B-2 had changed that to: “We’ve got an airplane, how many targets do you have?” But of equal importance, it was a chance to prove what the B-2 could really do. And West was the man to do it.

“Jim,” the wing commander asked, “do you want this one?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The Intel officer wasn’t ready to let it go. “I believe we should send in two B-Twos.”

“We can send in a second aircraft,” West replied, “but there won’t be anything left for it to hit.”

“You sound very confident,” the Intel officer said.

“Damn right. Just make sure there’s no leaks this time. I don’t want to get my ass shot down.”

11:03
A.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Kansas City, Mo.

Toni was waiting for Sutherland when he walked into the FBI’s offices late that same morning. She handed Sutherland a copy of the
Kansas City Star
, The newspaper was opened to the feature page where the top headline trumpeted one Henry “Hank” Sutherland as “A Prosecutor with a Conscience.” A very flattering photo of him walking out of wing headquarters with Catherine Blasedale spread across three columns. He checked the story byline: Marcy Bangor, the
Sacramento Union
. Marcy had turned him into a modern knight-errant, traveling about the country righting judicial wrongs.

“We have a celebrity in our midst,” Toni announced. “She seems to know you fairly well.”

“You might say that,” Sutherland replied.

She took him by the hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Two Secret Service pukes are flying in this afternoon to join the team and we want to get our act together before they arrive.”

Toni led him into a large room where Brent Mather, two other FBI agents, and a Treasury agent were gathered around a conference table. Toni made the introductions, and they went back to work. Sutherland listened silently to the discussion.
They’re more concerned with protecting their turf than doing the job
, he thought. Finally, he nudged Toni. “Hell of a way to spend Saturday. How about lunch?”

The team liked the idea and they all stood, glad for the break. Brent Mather joined them as they left the room. “Mind if I come along?”

Toni smiled. “Sure, why not?”

“Sure,” Sutherland groused. “Why not?”

12:10
P.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

About the time Toni, Sutherland, and Mather were sitting down to lunch, Tech. Sgt. Leroy Rockne was seriously considering squashing the head of the federal marshal taking Jefferson to Leavenworth Prison. “Sir,” The Rock protested, “land transportation is dumber than dirt. It’s an easy matter to lay on a helicopter.”

“We do this one our way, Sergeant,” the marshal barked. “Everyone expects us to helicopter him.”

“Who’s everyone?” The Rock asked.

The marshal ignored the question. “That’s why we’re going to caravan him. We’ve laid out a route avoiding Kansas City and the main highways. It should take about three hours, max. Me and my partner in the lead car, you and two other security cops in the van with Jefferson, and a follow-up van one mile in trail. That way we avoid attention.”

“You need to rethink this.”

“We have rethought this, Sergeant. Any questions?”

“No, sir. I’ll get Capt. Jefferson.”

The marshal frowned. “He’s not an officer, Sergeant. Remember that.”

“I know what he is,” The Rock replied.

The Rock drove the van, careful to keep the prescribed spacing the marshal insisted on. He never saw the follow-up van but knew it was there from the radio calls. “They talk too much,” he muttered.

“Not to worry,” his partner sitting in the front seat said. “It’s their show, not ours.”

“Is it?” The Rock asked. He closed the distance with the lead car when they entered a rolling section of the county road they were following through farm country.

The marshal’s voice came over the radio. “Fall back,” he ordered.

“I want to keep you in sight,” The Rock replied.

“You hard of hearing, Sergeant?”

The Rock slowed the van and let the lead car move ahead. It disappeared over a rise. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a truck barreling up behind them. “Where’s the warning call from the follow-up?” he muttered. They crested a second rise and The Rock stomped on the brakes. A farm tractor pulling a wagon was turning onto the road, blocking the way and cutting them off from the lead car. “Shit!” he roared. He slammed the van into reverse, accelerated hard, and spun the wheel. The van skidded around and he headed for the approaching truck. His partner in the front seat was on the radio, yelling the distress code. “Everyone on the floor!” The Rock shouted. He mashed the accelerator as the cop in the back pushed Jefferson to the floor.

The truck coming at them moved into the center of the narrow road and slowed. Instinctively, the Rock shaded it to his right and the truck moved in that direction, now almost entirely in his lane. The Rock waited, the timing critical. He jerked the wheel to the left and threw the van into the oncoming lane, passing the truck on the wrong side. He was abeam of the truck cab before the other driver could react. The Rock chanced a quick glance at his adversary and two men wearing ski masks looked back. He was almost clear of the truck when its rear end fish-tailed, swatting the right side of The Rock’s van like a fly.